


Cuddles are Nice, Feelings are Confusing

by lightningbugqueen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Beta Read, Big Brother Mycroft Holmes, Confessions, Cuddles, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Stupid John, What we can all take away from this is that Sherlock and John are stupid and gay, stupid sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningbugqueen/pseuds/lightningbugqueen
Summary: John and Sherlock are gay and stupid. Cuddles, so much angst, love letters, and fluff ensue.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Cuddles are Nice, Feelings are Confusing

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much! This is officially the longest fic I have written, and hopefully one of the best! Enjoy! :)

John awoke reeling from a nightmare. His sheets confined him like a straight jacket, and no matter how much he thrashed he couldn’t break out of them. He yelled out, still half-trapped in the dream. It was about the fall again. That image of Sherlock stepping off the roof was trapped in his mind, branded there as it probably would be forever. It had been three years since he lost Sherlock and even thinking about that day, and the years that followed, hurt like a knife to the heart. So, he tried his best not to. Of course, his nightmares hadn’t quite gotten the message. 

Once he fully awoke he stopped yelling and moving. He just laid still, quiet, tears tracking down his face. 

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. 

“John?” Sherlock burst through the door wearing his signature robe, “Are you alright? I heard yelling, was it another nightmare?” 

“I didn’t know you knew…. No, of course, you did,” said John quietly, and slowly, carefully, began to untangle himself from the sheets that were now drenched in his sweat. 

“Yes, Sherlock,” he explained, “It was a nightmare. I’m fine though, so you can go back to whatever it was you were doing-” he glanced at the clock, which showed half-past three “-Which was hopefully sleeping.” 

Sherlock nodded awkwardly then backed away toward the door. He stopped at the doorway, however, and made a surprising comment. 

“Er, you know, if there’s anything I can do to, you know, help…” John had always assumed Sherlock was above such trivial emotions, but he supposed his flatmate was more human than he had thought. 

“Um, I’m fine. Although…” he felt stupid asking, “Maybe a hug?” 

Sherlock looked taken aback for a moment as if he expected John to simply want him to leave before he gave a curt nod and moved to sit beside his friend. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around John, and the doctor leaned into his touch. It was awkward, at first, but they soon grew comfortable in each other’s arms. John settled in with his head on Sherlock’s chest, and arms wrapped around his thin waist. Sherlock had one arm on John’s back, holding his friend to him, and the other on his neck. It was perfect. John could feel Sherlock's heart beating, could hear his breaths right above his ear. To be able to hold Sherlock, to reassure himself that his friend was here, with him, alive, was amazing. 

John soon began to nod off. Before then, every time he had a nightmare he was unable to fall back asleep for the rest of the night, but now was different. He had the sure reminder that his nightmare was false, his friend was with him, and they were both safe. So, with the exhaustion from that night piling onto his shoulders, he drifted off. 

They remained there for a short time until Sherlock realized that John was no longer awake. (He would have realized it sooner had he not been distracted by the softness of John’s hair) He began to lay his friend back on his bed, prepared to leave when John mumbled something. He was obviously still asleep but seemed to know what he wanted. 

“No. Stay.” Sherlock hummed a little laugh, one he would never have let out had his flatmate been awake, and acquiesced to John’s request. 

He settled in beside John, who immediately curled into him. The shorter man molded himself up into Sherlock’s side, getting settled until he finally lay still. Sherlock turned to him so that his face was an inch or so away from the detective’s chest, and wrapped his arm around John. 

And, like so, they slept. 

This became a common occurrence in 221B. For almost three months, whenever John had a nightmare, they would cuddle for the night, sleeping in the same bed, but nothing more. They didn’t mention it during the day. John assumed Sherlock was embarrassed to be doing something so human, and he went along with it, just hoping that it would last. 

It was nice. Sherlock was a very good cuddler, surprisingly. John may have been biased, he had been in love with Sherlock for a rather long time, but he just went along with it. 

He was sure, of course, that Sherlock had already deduced his love for him. He was the best detective in the country, probably the world, after all. So, John assumed that Sherlock knew, did not reciprocate, and simply stayed quiet about his knowledge as to not make things awkward around the flat. 

To be fair, it often made him sad the next morning when Sherlock would simply get up and leave as soon as he awoke. It was as if cuddling with John was a mistake he had made when it was night, and he was foolish, and now he just wanted to forget about it and move on. But every time John awoke screaming there he was, ready to hold John to him and soak up his tears. 

One night, similar to many others, John awoke from a nightmare about the war. It didn’t seem like he had woken Sherlock, but he really needed his friend, so he went downstairs to the detective’s room. John cracked open the door to the room and peeked inside. Sherlock was asleep on his back, in the center of the bed. John had no idea how he was able to sleep like that but to each their own. 

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly.

“Yes John, go ahead and get in the bed.” Oh. He was awake, and had, of course, already deduced why John was there. 

“Thanks,” John said, before sliding under Sherlock’s thin sheets. Out of habit, they both settled into each other’s embrace, in the same way they had that first night. Sherlock ran his hands through John’s hair, and John focused on the detective's breathing and the texture of his shirt. 

Sherlock lifted his head up, John didn’t know why and didn’t really care. They remained in this new position for a little while, until John felt something drip onto his cheek. He glanced up and could see something reflecting on Sherlock’s face in the darkness. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, “Are you crying?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he immediately flipped over and rolled out of the bed, almost collapsing onto the floor. The man, usually so graceful and poised, stumbled to his feet and walked quickly to the door muttering, “I’ll just...I’ll go now” 

“Sherlock, stop!” John exclaimed, confused and worried about his friend. Sherlock turned around, tears running freely down his face now. “Are you okay?” the doctor asked. 

“God John, do I look like I’m okay?” Sherlock spat. 

“No, no, that was stupid. Sherlock, what’s wrong?” The detective just chuckled lowly and turned to leave again. 

“No! Sherlock, tell me!” John was really concerned now, he had never seen Sherlock act this way. 

“No! I’ll just leave now, and we can pretend this didn’t happen.” 

“Sherlock, tell me right now!” John was getting angry. 

“Why, John? Why would I tell you? I’ve been in pain for so long, but you don’t notice! As always, you see but-” 

“I don’t observe. Yes, I know!” John cut him off. It broke his heart that Sherlock had been hurting and he hadn’t known, but how was he supposed to? “Listen, Sherlock! I’m not as smart as you! I can’t be. I don’t observe, because I can’t! I’m sorry that I’m not as good as you, that I have to have the most simple things explained to me! I’m sorry that you have to put up with my idiocy in this house, that you have to coddle me through nightmares! I’m sorry that I’m not as good as you, but I never will be! I will never match up to the incredible Sherlock Holmes, so would you just BLOODY EXPLAIN IT TO ME ALREADY?” This never happened. They never fought. Sure, they squabbled over science experiments in the microwave, and body parts in the fridge, and the unending lack of milk, but they never fought fought. 

Sherlock looked stricken. Like he had never possibly imagined John not knowing everything he did, not understanding every little thing as he did. His face hardened, however, and he began speaking in an even tone. 

“John, I’m not going to explain it to you. It is a personal matter, and I’d rather not-”

“Oh, bullshit!” 

“John I won’t-”

“Sherlock!” 

“No, I can’t!”

“Sherlock bloody Holmes tell me right now or I swear..!”

“I’m in love with you!” Sherlock finally yelled, before spinning around and rushing out the door with an aborted sob following him down the hall. 

John sank back down to sit on Sherlock’s bed. What? Sherlock was in love. With John. And now he was gone. John couldn’t deal with this now. His brain was barely working, all the fighting had left him even more spent than before, and he really needed sleep. So, he laid back down and fell asleep. 

The next morning was horrible. Sherlock hadn’t come back to bed, John’s entire body ached, and he was left with the stabbing sensation he got in his gut every time Sherlock was hurt. 

Eventually, John couldn’t take the silent room and cold bed anymore. He rolled to his feet and made his way from Sherlock’s bedroom to the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The doctor made himself a cup of tea and toast, moving like a robot. His mind just went over the night before again and again, wishing he could go back. Go back and know that he should have followed his flatmate out of the room. Told him that he loved him back. Because John did. He loved him more than he had ever loved anyone. And he had no idea what he was going to do. 

When he sat down with his measly breakfast, John noticed a piece of folded paper on the table. Written in his friend’s perfect script was John’s own name. He reached over, still mechanical, and opened the paper, which turned out to be a letter. 

_ Dear John, _

_ I am sorry. I was telling the truth, I never did mean to tell you. This was supposed to stay my secret. You were never supposed to know. But that is in the past, I suppose.  _

_ I understand that this will make things awkward between us. I assume you no longer wish to be friends. That is okay, it makes perfect sense. I have left, you won’t ever have to see me again. I suppose I’ll send some of Mycroft’s men to collect my things. You can have all the furniture, and if need be you can, of course find another flatmate.  _

_ I am leaving now, so I can tell you all the things I promised myself I never would. I can tell you how I always get rid of the milk, so we have something to talk or argue about. I can tell you about how many times I’ve had to talk myself out of telling you that ~~I love you~~ my feelings for you. I can tell you how amazing you are. I can tell you that you are one of the kindest, the wisest, and best men I have ever known. I can tell you that no matter what you think, it is I that will never match up to you. I will never match your ability to talk to people. I will never match your kindness or your love for others. I will never match your knowledge of the solar system.  _

_ You, John Hamish Watson, are the bravest and most incredible man I have ever known. I consider it an honor to have had the chance to know you and to love you. I am lucky to have my heart broken by you. I will never, ever forget you. I will never love another. You are my other half John, and I am losing you. But it is what I have to do, for both of us. Maybe, one day, I will not be so obsessed with you. However, I doubt I will love anyone else in the way I have loved you.  _

_ It hurt me more than you can imagine watching you go on date after date, not once looking at me. I may be oblivious John, but I’m certainly not stupid. Why do you think I interrupted so many of your dates, insulted so many of your girlfriends? Here’s why, John: I could deal with you not loving me. I could, and can, accept that you will never like me romantically, will never want me as I want you. But John, the pain you put me through! Every girl you brought home was another reminder that you didn’t want me. That I wasn’t worth it. And I know that. I know I’m rude and don’t understand people, and nobody likes me. I never expected you to even call me your friend. But I still feel things. I still hurt.  _

_ And I still love you.  _

_ So, it burdens me to say that we will never again be “Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.” Goodbye, John.  _

_ Sherlock _

There were dried tears splattered on the letter. And new ones too, that had fallen from John’s eyes. 

The idea that Sherlock had been holding all of this in for so long, that he had been through so much pain, all for John, was excruciating. Now John was determined. Sherlock was his friend, and maybe they could be more. He just had to find the bloody detective to tell him that. 

He found Mrs. Hudson first. She hadn’t seen him. Then he called Mycroft, who didn’t pick up. Then Molly, then Greg, then even Donovan and Anderson. Nobody had seen Sherlock. John, of course, had no idea where Mycroft lived, so he ended up going to every crime scene in the city, searching for his flatmate. Every place he looked was full of cops and Yarders, but no Sherlock. 

Hours later he returned to the flat, defeated and sore. And worried. He was so worried about Sherlock that no matter how tired he was, he couldn’t sleep. 

John paced the flat, thinking and thinking about where Sherlock could have gone. The only option left was a drug den or Mycroft’s. God, he hoped he was at Mycroft’s. He tried the man’s cell a few more times, and Sherlock’s until he found it stuffed in the couch. 

Finally, with the clock nearing midnight, John sank down to sit in Sherlock’s chair. He didn’t know why, he just felt like he needed to be close to his friend. 

God, he had screwed things up. There were so many ways he could have made this better, and yet he had done none of them. He had let Sherlock walk right out of his life, and gone to sleep, leaving them both heartbroken. 

John stayed like that, silent, still, frozen in Sherlock’s chair, thinking about everything and nothing until a pounding on the stairs shook him from his stupor. He shifted, turning to face the door. Please be Sherlock. Please be Sherlock. Please be Sher-

Sherlock burst through the door as if he was pushed. While he stumbled through the doorway, looking much worse for wear than John had last seen him, the pusher in question stepped in as well. 

He was a well built and muscular man with military cropped hair and a fine-cut suit on. He shook out his hands as if his task had been awfully tedious, then turned to John and spoke. 

“Mycroft sends his regards,” he said, then turned and stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. 

Sherlock immediately tried to race after him, but John was too quick. He shot out of the chair, sprang to Sherlock’s side, and grasped him by the arm before he could move two feet. 

“No, Sherlock. We’re going to sit down and talk.” John said in a commanding voice, and Sherlock didn’t even fight him. The detective looked defeated. His eyes had lost their excited spark, he trod rather than leaped across the room. Sherlock wasn’t even Sherlock anymore. And John was going to fix that, or he was going to die trying. 

He sat Sherlock down in his chair, then settled on his own. 

“Listen, Sherlock,” he started, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“No, John. I understand, I left you the letter, why won’t you just let me go?” 

“Will you just shut up and let me talk?” John exclaimed, angry, tired, and raw from all of the emotions he had been through in the past twenty hours. Sherlock nodded. 

“Alright, I have a couple things I need to explain. First of all, you are not moving out,” Sherlock started to cut him off, but John kept going, “No, you won’t! And second of all, of course I still want to be your friend! And, ah, hopefully…. More?” his flatmate stared at him in disbelief. 

“More?” the detective asked. 

“Um, if you’ll have me. I just… didn’t know how you felt until last night, so I didn’t want to ask you before, but then you said the things, but then you left, so I couldn’t tell you. I mean, it’s okay if you changed your mind…” he trailed off, looking at his hands that clasped his knees so tight they hurt. It was silent for too long. 

“Um, okay then,” he finally said before getting up to leave the room. This seemed to finally awaken something in Sherlock, who surged out of his chair after him. 

John felt a long-fingered hand wrap around his shoulder right as he reached the doorway. Sherlock spun him around, fast enough to make him dizzy, and stared into his eyes. 

The spark was back. 

Sherlock moved forward, pressing their lips together. John was not much for cliche romance crap, but this kiss, this much too short but still so long kiss, was magical. Fireworks danced beneath his closed eyelids, and his heart swelled so much it felt like it would burst. This was everything and more, everything he had been wishing and waiting for for years, and John would never let it go. 

Finally, they pulled away, the need for air finally overpowering their love of the kiss. John stared up at Sherlock who was finally, finally, his. 

“So…. that’s a yes?” he asked, not really in need of the confirmation. 

“God, yes, John,” Sherlock replied, a smile finally appearing on his lips. It had been less than a day, but John had already missed that smile. 

“I love you too, you know,” he said after a moment. The smile grew. 

John was holding Sherlock. 

The detective was wrapped in the warm embrace of the one person he would ever love. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was happy. He shifted his face deeper into John’s chest, inhaling that intoxicating scent. Laundry detergent, cologne, gunpowder, and a hint of chemicals leftover from work. Who would have thought that this scent would be the best one Sherlock had ever smelled? This moment was perfect. There were no billions of thoughts racing through the detective’s head, no need for a case or drugs, no twinge in his heart that came when he saw John getting ready for yet another date. 

“I love you,” He whispered to his boyfriend ( _ boyfriend! _ )

“I love you too, you idiot,” John replied. 

Everything was okay. Because John was holding Sherlock. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed leave a comment/kudos to let me know!  
> Thanks to my beta reader, Tazz! You're the best!


End file.
